


saying it when i'm alone

by finkpishnets



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, No Book Spoilers, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 00:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6448501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finkpishnets/pseuds/finkpishnets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Love is not blackmail,” he says, and Raphael rolls his eyes.</p><p>“It is in your hands.”</p><p>[A collection of my Simon/Raphael tumblr prompt fills.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I can't believe you talked me into this."

**Author's Note:**

> I've been taking prompts from a [fic meme](http://madroxed.tumblr.com/post/142135834769/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you) over at [tumblr](http://madroxed.tumblr.com/), and to be tidy I'm bringing them all here.
> 
> Each is stand-alone unless stated otherwise. Show canon only. (Feel free to come leave a prompt or just chat with me about loser vampires in love any time.)

Simon had been pretty ambivalent about high school when he was there; mostly he flew under the radar, nerdy enough not to be popular but with enough friends not to make him a target. It had always helped that he and Clary came as a package deal, no matter where, no matter when.

Except now. Now he’s starting to reevaluate that a bit.

“Cheer up,” Clary says, smoothing down her dress and waiting for Jace to return with much needed drinks. “It’s not that bad.”

Simon shoots her a look he hopes conveys how very much he disagrees with that statement. 

Clary winces. “You’re at least fifty percent hotter than the last time any of these people saw you?” she says, grasping at straws.

“I think that’s a compliment,” Simon says. “Maybe.”

Julie Simmons takes the microphone to remind everyone that there’s a raffle to help pay for the new gym floor, and Simon remembers the time she locked a member of the Jewish Student Union in the basement broom closet and wonders if draining her would technically be a crime considering she’s probably still an awful person.

“Who even has a five year reunion?” Jace says, returning with a hunted expression and as many drinks as he can hold. “Also I think one of your teachers was hitting on me.”

Clary looks over at the drinks table. “Oh, no. That’s Lucille Blake. She must seriously be regretting that botox.”

There’s a faint sound of despair as Raphael reaches past Simon and grabs a glass of punch from Jace, slipping his hip flask from his pocket and adding his own contraband. “I can’t believe you talked me into this,” he says, downing the vamp-only cocktail and looking like he needs at least a dozen more.

“Actually,” Clary says, “neither can I. What did he use?”

“Emotional blackmail,” Raphael says, glaring at Simon who just smiles genially back.

“Love is not blackmail,” he says, and Raphael rolls his eyes.

“It is in your hands.”

For all he’s complaining, Raphael’s made an effort; he always looks good, but tonight he’s foregone his usual suits for dark jeans and a sports jacket, kitted out like any other twenty-something and not a decades old clan leader with a hip flask of blood in his pocket. Admittedly, a super _hot_ twenty-something, but still.

“Heads-up,” Jace says, nodding at the dance floor where one of the girls has separated from her entourage and is staring intently in Raphael’s direction.

“ _Dios_ ,” Raphael says, looking horrified as she throws him a cutesy three-fingered wave. Simon’s _almost_ tempted to leave him to his fate, but the hilarity wouldn’t be worth the consequences so he shrugs out of his blazer and passes it to Clary with a sigh.

“Come on,” he says, reaching for Raphael’s hand. “Dance with me.”

It’s almost funny; when he was actually here, walking these halls, he kept all thoughts about sexuality and romantic options locked tightly inside his own head. They didn’t matter, not when he knew he was in love with Clary and thought he would be forever, and even if he _had_ been tempted to act on that niggling suspicion that, _hey_ , he was attracted to guys! he would always have been _way_ too terrified.

Flash forward and he’s leading his vampire boyfriend-but-let’s-not-call-it-that into the center of the gymnasium as his whole senior class looks on.

Raphael wraps an arm around his waist, his thumb pressing against the thin strip of skin where Simon’s shirt’s ridden up. “Do you miss it?” he asks suddenly, words low and meant only for Simon’s ears. “Being a mundane?”

Simon thinks about being here today in one of his old t-shirts, glasses slipping down his nose, trying to blend in even as he feels small and awkward and ordinary. Thinks about kids who stumble over his name and drinking too much punch and admitting again and again that, no, he and Clary aren’t together. Thinks about a life that hasn’t been his in so long he can barely remember who that scared, frenetic boy was. 

“Nah,” he says, stepping closer and resting a palm against Raphael’s chest, near where his heart used to beat. “I think I’m pretty good as I am.”


	2. "If you die, I'm gonna kill you."

In hindsight, Simon probably shouldn’t have come on this mission with Clary and the Shadowhunters. He shouldn’t have snuck out of the hotel without telling anyone, shouldn’t have taken the call in the first place, shouldn’t have left his nice, cosy bed.

 _Shouldn’t have_ , but he did, and yeah.

That’s not really working out for him.

He can vaguely hear the sounds of punches being thrown, but it’s too far away — _they’re_ too far away — and Simon doesn’t know how long he has but it’s not long enough. Every part of him hurts, and he wonders vaguely what the point of a second chance was if it’s only going to slip through his fingers before he could ever really grab ahold.

Clary’s going to be so pissed.

There’s a ringing in his ears and it takes him a long moment to realize it’s his cellphone.

“Hello?” he says, the world spinning furiously around him.

“Where are you?” Raphael’s voice says, somewhere down a tinny line, and Simon sighs and relaxes into the cold ground beneath him. It’s good that Raphael called, Raphael’s his leader and his — _well_ , his friend, sort of, maybe — and maybe he could have been something _else_ given more time and the right words. Simon’s kind of bummed he’s not going to find out, if only to see Raphael’s face when he realizes Simon’s hitting on him.

“Dunno,” he says, when he remembers he’s supposed to answer. “Somewhere. S’cold.”

There’s a pause, and when Raphael next speaks it’s with an urgency he usually reserves for Camille and his opinions on the New York Mets. “Simon, are you hurt?”

Simon can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him, though it feels like it’s taking the inside of his throat with it. “Yeah,” he says, when he can shape the words. “Yes, I think I am. Just a bit.”

Raphael curses, an impressive string of phrases that Simon would applaud if he could find the energy. “Where are you?” he asks again. “Tell me what you see.”

Simon tries to focus on the things around him — the smells and the sounds and the graffiti — and rattles off as much as he can even as he worries he’s long since stopped making sense.

“If you die,” Raphael says, and Simon wonders if he’s imagining the crack in his voice, “I’m going to kill you.”

“If I die _again_ ,” Simon points out a little hysterically, and Raphael groans.

“I’m coming,” he says, though Simon doesn’t see how he could possibly have worked out a location from, ‘it’s kinda dark and there’s a blue heart with Jeremy and Kayla Forever in and everything smells like fish.’ “I can’t believe I’m saving you _again_.”

“Eh,” Simon says, “I’ll buy you a drink to say thanks.”

“We don’t drink,” Raphael points out.

Simon shrugs, though Raphael can’t see it. “Sure, okay. I’ll take you to a movie then. We can make out in the back row.” 

Raphael makes a sound that Simon’s pretty sure is the human equivalent of a keyboard smash, and Simon doesn’t need to see him to know exactly what his eyebrows are doing. 

“New rule,” Raphael says eventually, “no propositions during life or death scenarios.”

Simon snorts. “ _You’re_ a death scenario.”

“For the love of—” Raphael says. “Just hold on. We can talk about back row make outs _after_ Bane’s healed you and I’ve chewed you out for getting involved in something stupid. Again.”

“Sounds fun,” Simon says, and he doesn’t know when his eyes shut but it’s nice not to have to keep them open anymore.

“Simon?” Raphael says. “ _Simon?_ ”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m almost there,” Raphael says, and it might be wishful thinking but he sounds closer somehow.

“Okay,” Simon says, and holds on.


	3. "Come over here and make me."

Raphael’s managed to go a lifetime without subjecting the occupants of Hotel Dumort to a screaming match in the grand hall, which isn’t something he would have considered an achievement before Camille had the bright idea to Turn Simon Lewis.

“Do you ever even _think_ —” he starts, the edges to his voice cracking away into something sharp and dangerous. He’s so angry he’s shaking with it; it’s been a long time since he’s felt this lack of control, not since he was newly turned and ready to do something permanent to save the world a little more misery.

“Clary’s my _friend_ ,” Simon shouts, not for the first time, and Raphael’s morbidly pleased to hear the same jagged edges echoed back at him. “Of _course_ I was going to help her.”

“You almost got yourself _killed_ ,” Raphael says, the anger spreading until it feels like he’ll never reign it in. “You almost got us _all_ killed.”

There’s a flash of guilt and then Simon’s expression resolves itself into something firm and unapologetic, as if in that split second he’s weighed up the Shadowhunter’s life against all of theirs and found them wanting. Raphael wants to spit and rage and bring the walls crashing down around Simon’s feet the way he’s so willing to do to them, his prejudice ingrained deep and lasting as he separates himself further. He’s not one of them, not because they won’t accept _him_ but because he doesn’t want _them_ , and Raphael’s head spins with frustration and fire and rejection, and he hates the bitter taste that coats his tongue.

“They’re fighting for _everyone_ ,” Simon says, a tired explanation that’s not even his, the perfected speech of too many other people still clouded with envy. “They’re the good guys! If we don’t help then what does that make _us_? I thought you were different, I thought—”

Everything in him is screaming, this entire argument like his temples meeting a brick wall over and over, and he wants to shake the naivety from Simon’s throat. “Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ ”

Simon cuts off, teeth gritted, and Raphael hears the words in the air before he says them. “Come over here and make me.”

It’s a challenge, one they’ve been inching steadily closer to since Clary _fucking_ Fairchild made Simon’s choice for him, though it’s too easy to blame her for where they are now when in reality it’s _Simon_ , Simon Lewis with his undeserved pedestals and high and mighty assumptions that wash away the years and decades and _centuries_ that make up the people under this roof. _His_ people.

Maybe it’s inevitable. If they were werewolves this would be a simple fight of dominance, Alpha versus Omega, challenge issued and accepted and played out to whatever result Fate favors. They’re not werewolves though; there’s no law in place, nothing except the thrumming in their veins and the tension in the air.

Raphael’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and there’s a bite of satisfaction at the brief surprise on Simon’s face, another reminder that he’s still not asking the right questions of the right people. He takes one step and then another, slow and human and deliberate, until all he can see are Simon’s shot pupils, fingers sliding into fists as he holds back. He can already smell the tang of dead blood on the air as his knuckles collide with Simon’s nose, hear the shattering of bones that knit together almost as quickly as they can damage them, the spill of bottled fury draining through the very brickwork that cages and protects them.

Raphael’s fingers wrap around Simon’s neck and he catches his lips between his own, teeth biting down as Simon surges forwards, pushing him away only to pull him back in, fingers bruising and muscles taught. There’s more than one way for them to destroy each other, every sharpened sense is narrowed to the here and now, and it’s _everything_ , everything Raphael hasn’t wanted and craves with the sudden shock of newfound clarity. 

Aside from the undeniable strength, Simon kisses like a teenager, and Raphael feels the memory of it slip over him as he hears the rip of Simon’s t-shirt beneath his hands; Simon’s fangs come out in revenge, and Raphael meets him every step of the way and then some, until this kiss — this stupid, _furious_ fucking _kiss_ — takes his rage and twists it into something else entirely.

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” Simon says, words pressed against his jaw, but Raphael hears the petulance balancing on the surface and knows he’s won this round.

“Never again,” he says, though it’s less a demand, more wishful thinking, and when Simon’s nails dig crescents into his hips it’s as close to a promise as he’s ever going to get.


	4. “Do you…well...I mean…I could give you a massage?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** for sexual innuendo and the implication of awkward boners. I'm so sorry, there's no excuse.

Simon’s pretty used to feeling guilty nowadays, but at least this time it wasn’t exactly a life or death situation. Just a ‘beaten and bruised and kinda bloody’ one.

Well, for Raphael anyway.

“I swear I didn’t see it,” Simon says. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Raphael says, and he’s healing quickly but Simon doesn’t miss the slight limp and the hunch of his back. “That wall suffered more than me.”

“Well, yeah,” Simon agrees. “What with it not existing anymore.”

It’s the time of night when the rest of the clan are out and about living as much as the undead can, which is why Raphael was the only one around when he got the call from Clary and stormed right into danger. Again. 

Raphael groans and rolls his shoulders, a frown between his eyes, and it’s probably because Raphael’s displayed vulnerabilities are normally so rare that Simon doesn’t think before he says, “Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?”

“What?” Raphael says, like he hasn’t heard him, and Simon shrugs and does something vaguely resembling jazz hands. 

“I took a course once. Clary was doing these Saturday art classes and it was the only other thing running at the Community Centre.”

“You took a course in massage,” Raphael says, blinking at him. “Of course you did.” 

“Well?” he says, and Raphael seems to be debating with himself before he sighs and takes off his shirt.

“Don’t forget your strength,” he says, stretching out on one of the gold couches, and Simons swallows and doesn’t think about anything at all as he fumbles into a semi-comfortable position.

The course he’d taken hadn’t been anything professional; it’d mostly been full of old people and their grown-up kids learning to keep the blood flow going and limit aches and pains, and that first class Simon had been ready to turn and run until a lovely lady named Bertie offered him brownies, and, well. He was always a sucker for baked goods.

Still, he knows the basics, and he tries to focus on that, pressing down with his thumbs and spreading his palms wide. Raphael makes a soft sound that Simon would have missed before he’d Turned, and he runs his hands over the knots of his spine and hates that his — usually overactive — brain has chosen now to come to a screeching halt, and _he’s touching Raphael, this shouldn’t be happening, why is this happening, what has he done?_ and also his thumbs are now somewhere near the band of Raphael’s pants and _fuck, fuck, fuck._

“Okay, this is weird,” Raphael says, when Simon’s been still too long, terrified to move.

“So weird,” he says, backing away with relief. “Sorry. That was— yeah. Sorry.”

Raphael rolls his eyes and reaches for his shirt, doing the buttons up quickly, and Simon’s glad he’s not the only one feeling awkward as all hell.

A _massage_. Because he hasn’t humiliated himself enough lately. 

Raphael’s not meeting his eyes, and Simon wonders if he’s about to have his ass kicked or if they’ll go the obvious route of _never talking to each other ever again._ Or both. 

He’s such an idiot.

He’s considering the merits of just throwing himself on one of the wooden side tables and hoping Fate’s on his side when Raphael finally moves to look at him.

“We could watch that film…?” he says hesitantly, and Simon’s eyes widen in surprise. “The one you were talking about the other day, with the zombies?”

“ _Shaun of the Dead?_ Oh man, _yes_ ,” he says, and okay, so two minutes ago he’d had his _hands on Raphael’s bare skin_ but also Raphael’s now offering to sit and watch British cult comedy with him so he’s willing to let that hideously uncomfortable experience slide. 

It also means he gets to sit in the dark for a few hours and not have to talk to anyone, which is a good idea on so many levels. Apparently becoming a vampire doesn’t counteract the fact that he’s an eighteen year old guy, something he feels should definitely be put in the initiation brochure: ‘How Turning Affects Your Highly Embarrassing Hormonal Responses. Spoiler: It Doesn’t.’

Still.

Disaster aside, Raphael takes his place on the couch and, after a few moments, Simon sits down next to him. Their thighs aren’t quite touching and Raphael’s collar’s not sitting right and Simon can still feel the shift of his muscles beneath his palms, and _fuck_.

He’s so screwed.

“Relax,” Raphael says, startling him from his internal freakout, and he shoots Simon a look that says he knows exactly what’s going through Simon’s head and is trying not to laugh. Simon’s a little relieved to know he still hates him, just a bit.

“I’m relaxed. I’m _so_ relaxed. I’m the most relaxed I could ever be,” he says because his mouth’s a traitor.

Raphael raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” he says, “okay. Did you want a cushion for your lap?”

“Oh G—,” Simon chokes. “Do you think if I begged, Magnus would create a hole in the ground to just open up and swallow me whole?”

Raphael snorts, the helpless kind that Simon’s not heard from him before. “Nice choice of words there.”

If Simon could still blush he would have set himself on fire.

“I hate you so much,” he says. “ _So_ much. No one on earth has ever hated anyone as much as I hate you.”

“Uh-huh,” Raphael says, and he’s still laughing. “You might want to send that memo to the rest of you.”

Simon grabs a statue from the coffee table and throws it at him. 

“Just watch the damn movie,” he says, and, not for the first time, wishes he was still in a grave somewhere.


	5. "I thought you were dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows on from ["If you die, I'm gonna kill you."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6448501/chapters/14757829)

The first time Simon wakes up there’s just pain — pain and darkness and pressure everywhere — and the only thoughts he can piece together are of earth and blood, so he shuts his eyes and lets unconsciousness sweep back over him like an escape.

The second time he wakes there’s a buzzing in his ears, and it takes him a moment to make out the patterns of conversation somewhere in the distance. There’s no clarity to the words, but he thinks they’re mostly whispered anyway, the natural politeness that comes with not wanting to wake the sick or the dead.

He can remember a fight and Raphael’s voice in his ear, but everything else is fuzzy; there are echoes of injuries tickling at his skin but, whatever happened, enough time’s passed that his immortal state’s taken control again.

Mostly he’s just _hungry_.

He groans as he sits up, muscles protesting, and then there’s footsteps and the opening of a door and Raphael’s face hovering over him. “Um,” he says, “hi?”

Raphael doesn’t reply, just looks over him frantically until his expression collapses in relief, and Simon blinks back his surprise and wants to say something, _anything_ , except then the door’s opening again and the crowd _without_ supernatural speed are flooding in and Raphael’s face is schooled back to indifference in the space of someone else’s heartbeat.

“Simon!” Clary says, throwing her arms around him. Simon manages to only wince a bit. “You’re alright!”

“I told you he would be,” Magnus says, rearranging the potions on the sideboard and sounding mildly offended. “I’m _very_ good.”

“Well, yes,” Clary says guiltily, and Alec rolls his eyes.

“It _was_ a close call,” he says. He sound faintly relieved, which is impossibly touching until he looks at Magnus and says, “We can still make our reservations.”

Clary sighs in disappointment and Magnus looks amused. “Darling,” he says, “we really have to work on your bedside manner.”

Alec raises a suggestive eyebrow. Simon thinks this is all better than any soap opera.

Magnus rattles off a list of instructions — to Clary, to Raphael, to Simon himself though he’s not really listening — and takes his leave, dragging a smug Alec with him. Clary fusses over his pillow and his blanket and his hair until he gently bats her away.

“Do you need anything?” she asks, and the tight lines around her eyes tell him how close he came to never waking up. He reaches out for her hand and squeezes it until her shoulders relax some.

“I could eat,” he says, and she laughs desperately, nodding as she backs out of the room in search of the hotel’s legitimate blood supply.

There’s a long pause once she’s gone, and Simon’s more than ready to fill it with useless babble when Raphael takes a deep, unnecessary breath and collapses into the chair next to him.

“I thought you were dead,” he says, and Simon swallows.

“…I hate to tell you this, but…” he says, because apparently he can’t help himself. Raphael snorts, and Simon’s infinitely pleased. “What happened?” he asks when Raphael looks less like he’s about to shatter.

“You were staked,” Raphael says. “It mostly missed, but a splinter was sat against your heart.”

Simon rubs at the phantom spike in his chest. He remembers now, the alley with the graffiti and his own hysterical words as Raphael kept him conscious on the other end of a phone line, and he’s sure he should be wanting the earth to swallow him up in embarrassment but he’s mostly just grateful.

“Thank you,” he says, “you know, for finding me.”

“I said I would,” Raphael says, and Simon wonders if he always keeps his promises or if Simon’s the exception to the rule. He thinks he gets it now, what Raphael was trying to say in those early days after he Turned, albeit with too much smirking and not enough earnest explanation; Raphael looks after his own, and Simon’s a part of that, a part of _something_ , and it may not be Clary’s Shadowhunter Elite but it’s a family all the same. One that hasn’t let him down yet.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says again, and hopes Raphael understands it’s for more than just this.

Raphael looks at him and nods, something gentle curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Now you’re not dying,” Raphael says playfully, and _wow_ , Simon could get used to that, “I think you mentioned something about a movie…”

Simon laughs. “I thought you were gonna chew me out first?”

“I did,” Raphael says, “you were just unconscious at the time. You missed a very detailed list of all the reason’s you’re an idiot, plus a rousing monologue on why you’re going to send _me_ to an early eternal grave, let alone yourself. You’d have been impressed.”

“Well,” Simon says with a serious nod, “thank you for your dedication.”

“No problem,” Raphael says. “I’ll be happy to give you a repeat performance if you ever dare do anything that fucking stupid again.”

“Yeah,” Simon says, “best to just learn it off by heart to be honest.” 

Raphael shoots him a glare, and Simon shrugs because, _hey_ , they may as well be realistic.

“Movie?” he says innocently, and Raphael rolls his eyes.

“When you’re back to full health,” he says, pointedly looking at the array of potions littered around. Simon pouts.

“What about the making out part?” he says, because he has absolutely no filter. “I’m a fan of previews.”

“Well,” Raphael says, leaning closer. Simon bites his lip and is so very glad his heart isn’t able to beat out of his chest. “You _did_ nearly die…”

“You probably shouldn’t reward me for that,” Simon says. “I’ll never learn.”

Raphael laughs, the sort that Simon takes pride is surprising out of him, and Simon reaches out and tangles his fingers in his jacket, tugging him closer still.

“Look at it as positive reinforcement,” Raphael says, words shaped against Simon’s lips. “A reminder of the benefits to sticking around.”

“Mmh, I see your point,” Simon says, and when Raphael kisses him he really, _really_ does.


	6. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?”

The Seelies are sneaky, sneaky faeries, and Simon’s sure he’d be incredibly upset with them for spiking his drinks if everything wasn’t so very shiny and swirly and _shiny_.

“What the hell,” Raphael says, gripping his arm and dragging him upright. “Would you _please_ stop trying to sit in the road? This is New York City, someone _will_ run you down.”

Simon laughs and it sounds like bells to his ears. “S’okay, I’m gonna live for _ever_.”

“Not if you don’t hurry up, you’re not,” Raphael threatens, and Simon thinks his glare is adorable. He rubs his thumb over the crease between Raphael’s eyes and tells him so. Raphael just stares back, and _wow_ , that’s so funny, Raphael’s hilarious, how did Simon never notice that? 

“Badum-bum-pa!” Simon says, smacking at the ground with imaginary drumsticks. Raphael takes a step back, letting him drop, and Simon winces as his elbow scrapes across asphalt. A car horn honks nearby and Simon starts laughing again. “It’s raining!” he says, after a moment. “Wow.”

“It’s been raining for the past twenty minutes,” Raphael says. “I’d say it’s ruined my clothes, but _you_ did that when you pushed me into a hedge and then threw up on my shirt.”

“Oops,” Simon says, blinking up at him. “Okay, but can you feel the rain? It’s so cold and wet and shimmery. Let’s just stay here for a bit, it’ll be nice.”

Raphael groans, and even fogged up Simon’s aware that he’s about two seconds from pushing him into oncoming traffic. “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain?”

“Ohh,” Simon says excitedly, “is there lightning?”

“Yes,” Raphael says. “I’m praying that it hits you.”

Simon reaches for Raphael’s hand, trying again when Raphael bats him away until he can tangle their fingers together, and that feels nice too, especially with the rain falling in sheets around them. Simon feels flushed, his vision hazy with a golden sheen that glitters and makes him think he can see Magnus in the corner of his eye, and the ghost of a hammering pulse echoes at the edge of his memory. He squeezes Raphael’s hand until Raphael sighs and sits on the sidewalk next to him, and that’s nice, that’s good, the weight of him pressed against Simon is an anchor and Simon rests his head against Raphael’s shoulder and hums along to the song of the rain.

He turns and buries his nose in the strip of skin above Raphael’s collarbone. “I think someone spiked my drink,” he says conspiratorially, and Raphael snorts.

“You think?” he says, and Simon thinks he can _feel_ the sarcasm as it slides into the space between them. He’s never been one for drugs but _man_ , if this is what a trip feels like then he suddenly has newfound respect for the sixties. “I warned you.”

Simon nods and the top of his head bumps against Raphael’s chin. Raphael pushes him away. “I know,” he says. “I know. I never listen.”

“You’re impossible,” Raphael says, and the words look like thunder. Simon reaches out to trace them, resting his fingertips against Raphael’s jaw when they’ve faded from sight. Raphael tenses but doesn’t move away, and Simon watches his own hand as it draws the lines of Raphael’s face and comes to settles against his lips.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, because it’s still raining and the world’s still glittering and Raphael’s still sat beside him.

“Why?” Raphael says, and Simon’s fingers buzz under the shape of the word.

Simon wants to say, _‘because I like you’, ‘because I want to’, ‘because I need you’_. He wants to but the haze stops the words from spilling between them, and he brings his free hand to his own throat and presses like he can force them free. “Because you’re still here,” he says eventually. Not the words he wanted but still ringing true in the air between them, tumbling over and over with a thousand meanings.

Raphael watches him and slowly shakes his head. “Then no,” he says, lowering Simon’s hand from his face.

Simon frowns. “Why?”

Raphael’s head tilts as he considers his answer. “Because you’re high,” he says. “Because you’re not in control. Because we’re sat on a sidewalk in the rain. Because you threw up on me less than an hour ago.” He pushes a strand of hair out of Simon’s eyes and the touch burns a path of light across Simon’s skin. “Because I’ll still be here tomorrow.”

A smile dances across Simon’s lips and he reaches out for Raphael’s hand again. “Okay,” he says, and wonders whether the ground will be steady beneath his feet yet. “Home then.”

“You’ve felt enough of the rain?” Raphael says, and the glint in his eye has nothing to do with Seelie magic.

Simon tilts his head back into the oncoming storm and laughs.


	7. "Teach me how to play?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a timestamp set post [pocketful of sunshine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6564742) (I wanted to play around more in that verse and this prompt seemed like a good place to start).

Raphael’s hunched over the piano, letting his immaculate posture slip as he repeats the same sequence until it’s perfect; Simon thinks it sounds awesome but he knows better than to say anything when Raphael’s practising. Especially since he’s, uh, not exactly supposed to be here.

It’s not his fault Raphael’s high school auditorium is so easy to break into.

Simon takes a seat at the back of the room, dropping his bag down quietly next to him and kicking his feet up on the chair in front. Between the Econ paper that’s been kicking his ass, Maureen calling nightly rehearsals ahead of their next show, and Raphael’s graduation creeping ever closer, Simon’s not seen his boyfriend for more than two minutes in the last week and enough’s enough.

“You’re not as sneaky as you think you are,” Raphael says without looking up from the piano, and Simon jumps, banging his elbow on an armrest.

“Fuck,” he says, rubbing at his funny bone. “That is a _lie_ , I’m practically a ninja.”

“You’re an _idiot_ ,” Raphael says, but he finally looks away from the keys and his smile makes Simon’s chest do something faintly embarrassing.

Simon leaves his bag where it is and wanders to the stage, pulling himself up close to Raphael rather than using the stairs at the other side of the room and making a note to start using the college gym when his arms protest. Raphael watches him with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk that says he knows exactly what’s going through Simon’s mind, and Simon ignores him and sits down on the piano bench instead, pressing his thigh against Raphael’s until Raphael sighs and slides up to make room.

“Hi,” Simon says, nudging Raphael’s shoulder with his own.

“Hi,” Raphael says and doesn’t even roll his eyes. Simon’s so fond of him.

Simon turns his head to kiss him and Raphael kisses him back for a couple of seconds before pulling away. “We’re at my school,” he says when Simon frowns.

“So you’re saying no making out in supply closets then?” Simon says. “I suppose that’s too public school for the kids around here.”

“They have the backseat of their Bentleys for that,” Raphael agrees, and Simon laughs. He rests his chin on Raphael’s shoulder for a moment, just happy to be breathing the same air as him after a week of classes and guitar-calloused fingers and hurried texts. They’ve not been together all that long, not really, but a weight he hadn’t even been aware of slips away at the physical contact, and, yeah. He’s such a goner.

“Tell me you’re free this weekend,” he says, “ _please_.”

Raphael laughs and presses his cheek against Simon’s hair. “I have a shift at the cafe on Saturday and I’m babysitting Sunday.”

Simon groans. “Okay,” he says, “okay, I’m going to come drink all your coffee and then I’m going to help you look after your brothers. They love me, it’ll be fine. They only tried to knock me out with a soccer ball that one time. It’s cool.”

Raphael reaches to tangle their fingers together and Simon stays as still as he can; it’s not that Raphael _doesn’t_ instigate touches between them, it’s just that it’s still enough of a rarity that it makes Simon’s breath catch a little, and he can’t help but think that any sudden movements will make him run away. That’s probably one of those things they should talk about — Clary’s always adding to the list any time Simon slips up and rambles about his endless array of insecurities — but not now, not when everything feels calm and easy and _right_.

“You’re in college,” Raphael says. “You’re in a _band_. Don’t you have better things to do with your weekend than watch me clear tables and try to stop the terrors from causing an international incident?” 

Simon runs the pad of his thumb across Raphael’s palm. “No,” he says with an honesty that’s too telling.

Raphael doesn’t say anything for a long moment and when he does it’s just a simple, “Okay,” and Simon’s heartbeat speeds up as he realizes that this boy — this talented, ambitious, gorgeous _boy_ — is a goner for him too. It’s probably the most humbling moment of his life. If this were a movie, he’d say something smart and earnest and they’d kiss as the faint orchestral music swelled, but he’s Simon and Raphael’s Raphael and instead Simon just squeezes his hand and sits up straight. 

“Teach me how to play?” he says, stretching his free fingers across the keys.  
  
 Raphael shakes his head, blinking back to the moment. “I’m not a teacher,” he says. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” 

“Well,” Simon says with a grin, “you’d better think of something or I’ll have to give you a rousing rendition of Chopsticks…”

Raphael snatches his hand out of Simon’s and reaches for the piano like he can protect it from Simon’s blasphemy. “You even try and I’ll break up with you before you can repeat that first damned note.” 

“So _teach me_ ,” Simon says, pushing at all the buttons he’s begun to locate beneath Raphael’s neatly pressed school uniform. 

Raphael rolls his eyes and reaches for Simon’s hands, spreading his fingers out over the keys in formation. “ _Fine_ ,” he says, “then we’ll start with scales.”

“Boring,” Simon says and doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile as he does as he’s told.


	8. “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.” / “Well this is awkward…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post finale.

Simon puts it off for weeks — for _months_ , if he’s being honest with himself — and eventually he has to face the fact that the timing’s always going to be wrong. 

(As if it could be _right._ )

He’s been crashing in Luke’s spare room for ages now, but the walk back to the hotel tugs at the _something_ that knotted itself to his chest the day his heart stopped beating, and he goes through the motions of breathing to calm the anxiety that immortality can’t fade and practices a thousand speeches he knows he’ll forget the instant he steps through the door.

He has places he should be, alliances he should be helping to forge by standing silently at Clary’s back, a _‘See? Shadowhunters can totally get along with Downworlders,’_ like his vampire status has anything to do with why he’s still allowed anywhere near the Institute and their self-interested strategies. A bitter corner of his mind whispers ‘pet’, and he shakes it off because Clary doesn’t understand, _can’t_ understand, and he won’t hold it against her when his choices are his own. 

Apologies only go so far, and Raphael may no longer have a kill order out on him but that doesn’t mean he’s given Simon permission to move back in. Which is _fine_ , except for the part where Simon finally _gets_ it. When Raphael said ‘family’ it meant more than Simon’s Mundane-hazed brain could fathom, not when he was still fighting the bloodlust and not when Clary looked at him with wide eyes and said ‘ _please_ ’, pulling him away from something he wasn’t yet ready for.

Months apart have let reality settle under his skin, and he knows what it means now, what being a _vampire_ means, and the first time he met with Raphael on neutral ground and couldn’t find the words, Raphael had nodded as if he could see it on Simon’s face. Reality only heightens the past, though, and Raphael may have seen Simon’s epiphany but Simon could see the betrayal settled deep in Raphael’s eyes, and it still burns through him like a curse. Choices are a double-edged sword and he’d made the one most familiar to him and watched as the other spun away with a foreign future he’s only now realizing could be so much _more_.

It’s a secret — one he’s kept from Clary and Raphael and _himself_ — and part of him doesn’t want to give it up. He’d say it’s the scariest thing to ever happen to him if he hadn’t experienced waking up in his own grave, though that could just be the Shadowhunter tendency for dramatics rubbing off on him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he turns it off before he can let himself get distracted by conspiracies and mayhem.

The hotel doors open as he veers onto the street, and Simon waits as Lily ushers clan members outside, wondering if they can sense him or if they’ve just stopped caring, far too interested in whatever plans they’ve made for the night to worry about a fledgling suffering from a case of crippling self-doubt.

A series of unnecessary breaths and he’s heading inside, trying to remember the layout of hallways and wondering how he’s let himself _forget_.

Raphael’s exactly where Simon expected him to be, and he must have heard Simon coming but he looks surprised anyway.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, before he has time to let his indifferent mask slip into place, and Simon was right, every speech he’s prepared is long gone and all that’s left is the tumble of words spilling across his tongue.

“I just—”

“Did the Nephilim want something?” Raphael asks, cool and distant, and Simon shakes his head and wonders at his own power to hurt someone so much older and so much more powerful than him with a few stupid decisions and careless words. 

“No,” he says, and maybe it’s the spark of vulnerability Raphael can’t quite hide (has never been able to hide, not around Simon, and isn’t that a punch to the gut) or maybe it’s the feeling of finally being where he belongs, back between walls he didn’t realize he needed as much as the people residing within them, but the anxiety drains out of him and leaves a calm he’s never known before.

“Then what?” Raphael says, and Simon doesn’t miss him eyeing the door or the twitch of his fingers as he folds his arms across his chest, on the defensive from a boy who has no right being able to get to him like this.

_Simon_ has no right.

He wonders how long it’ll take for Raphael to let him lower his walls again, to see passed the facade he has to wear for the clan to the scared young man who never wanted immortality in the first place, and _damn_ , Simon hates that he took that gift and threw it away before, but now he understands what Raphael — newly crowned and drowning — was offering him back then, and he understands that he wants it — _needs it_ — and he’ll wait as long as it takes for trust to thread its way between them if Raphael will just allow it.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, and it’s the most honest he’s been since his world turned to shadows and magic, “and I’m terrified.”

Raphael’s eyes widen and for once he can’t seem to find words. _It’s not a secret anymore_ , Simon thinks, and it’s a relief not to carry it around, building so slowly it almost took him too long to notice.

“You’re lying,” Raphael says eventually, and Simon’s heart breaks a little at his uncertainty even as Raphael frowns in confusion. “You’re _not_ lying?”

“I’m not,” Simon says. “I’m really not. I’d quote a thousand movies but you’d probably only get the really old references and, like, end up punching me and that’s not really the aesthetic I’m going for here. So, no, I’m not lying. I’m _not_.” 

Raphael’s hands clench against his hips. “Why are you _telling_ me?” he asks. “You know I could use this against you, right?”

“I know you could,” Simon says, and doesn’t say ‘ _that’s why I’m telling you_ ’ or ‘ _do with it what you will_ ’ or ‘ _I’m yours_ ’ because the sheer force of Raphael’s gaze tells him he hears it anyway. 

Simon knows what giving this means, knows it’ll change everything, and he’s scared shitless but he can’t bring himself to regret it when Raphael closes the distance between them and grips Simon’s collar like he’s not sure whether to kiss him or hit him.

“You really are an idiot,” Raphael says, and can’t hide the fondness echoed in recent nostalgia, and it’s _something_ , something that’s not hurt and betrayal and anger. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, “I know that, too.”

Simon’s chest aches at the proximity, and he thinks _this is what I’ve been missing_ and lets Raphael dictate the moment. 

This close he can see Raphael’s pupils dilate, see the way his lips twitch as he preempts his own words, and if Simon’s lungs still worked he’d be waiting on baited breath.

Of course, that’s when the door bursts open and Clary charges in, complete with bonus sidekick, because Simon’s life is one joke after another.

“Simon!” she says. “Are you okay? Let him _go_ , Raphael.”

“Um,” Simon says, and grasps Raphael’s wrists before he can do as she asks and he has to watch the moment shatter away before it’s even really started. “I’m good, Clary. _Really._ ”

Clary finally starts to look hesitant, dropping her weapon a little. “You weren’t answering your phone,” she says, like that’s a reason for barging into someone else’s home with back up and half an armory. To be fair, to her it probably is, and he can already envisage a dozen conversations about privacy in his future.

“Well, this is awkward,” Alec says, and Simon probably shouldn’t be surprised that he’s the first to catch on, but he’s always figured Alec pays about as much attention to him as he does a gnat. Actually, he’s sort of touched Alec’s even _here_. He must be really bored without Jace.

“Wh—?” Clary says, looking at Alec and then back at where Raphael’s fingers are still curled around the fabric at Simon’s neck. “Oh. _Oh._ ”

“ _Bye_ ,” Simon says, aiming for cheery and coming out breathless, his focus dragging back to Raphael, and _wow_ , okay, Raphael’s apparently already lost interest in everyone and everything else because he’s watching Simon like he’s _fascinating_.

“We have that meeting…” Clary says, and Simon can barely fix on her voice over the haze of nervous hope in his own head.

“Go on without me,” Simon says, or thinks he does, anyway, and cuts Clary off when she starts to argue. “Clary,” he says, and barely recognizes the intensity in his own voice, “I’m busy right now. I’ll talk to you _later_.”

They leave, they must do, though any attention span Simon had for anything besides Raphael disappeared with his own clipped words.

“Okay,” Raphael says after a long moment, fixing Simon’s collar with the press of his palms, and Simon bites at his lip and can’t help swaying into him, just a little.

“Okay?” he asks, and forces himself still when Raphael takes a step back.

“ _Okay_ ,” Raphael says, going to cross his arms over his chest and changing his mind at the last second, sliding his hands into his pockets instead, “you can come home.”

He says it pointedly, as though expecting Simon to object to the terminology or the assumption, but he doesn’t, he can’t, not when it’s all he’s wanted since he calmed down enough to realize what walking out that door meant the first time. 

Not when _home_ is exactly where he’s meant to be.

“Okay,” he says, and hopes it sounds like ‘ _thank you_ ’.


	9. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College AU.

 

Simon blames Jace.

Well, also tequila, but mostly Jace.

His head feels like it’s been cleaved in two with a battle-axe, and it’s possible that a rodent crawled in his mouth and died during the night. He remembers meeting the others at the one bar off campus that doesn’t inspect IDs too closely, remembers Magnus giving a toast congratulating Alec on finally handing in his thesis, remembers Jace ordering the first round of shots and then the second and the third, and after that—  
 Not so much.

There’s a shaft of sunlight breaking through a gap in the blinds, and Simon groans, lifting an arm to cover his eyes and immediately regretting it.

“You look like hell,” someone says, and Simon shushes them and then blinks, trying his best to sit up.

“Um,” he says when his vision stops swimming, because that is definitely Raphael Santiago wearing sweatpants and _nothing else_ , and, right. “What…?”

Raphael crosses his arms over his (exceptionally bare, oh god) chest and looks about as deeply unimpressed as he usually does when faced with Simon. “Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” he says eventually, and Simon frowns.

“This is my bed,” he says, and Raphael raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

“No,” Raphael says, and Simon braves the daylight and darts a quick look around, and, yeah, okay, so that is definitely not his desk or his lamp and, honestly, his room hasn’t looked this neat since the first day of the year.

“Ah,” he says. “Then, nope, no clue.”

Raphael sighs, and seems to be internally debating whether to just throw Simon out into the corridor naked as the day he was born — which wouldn’t be the first time Simon’s had to streak across campus, _thanks Magnus_ — and settles instead for reaching into his closet.

“Here,” he says, turning to leave. “I’m going to make coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Maybe it’ll turn out this was all a stress induced hallucination.”

“Sure,” Simon says. “Keep dreaming big.”

Simon tugs on the shirt that probably cost more than everything he owns, and then has a minor freakout about going commando in a pair of Raphael’s pants because, okay, Simon may, _may_ , have had a fantasy or two about this. Sort of. Kind of frequently. Oh god.

The thing is, Raphael was in Simon’s first year mandatory Lit class, and ever since they keep crossing paths. Simon swears he started his college career hating the guy, but somewhere between Raphael rejecting using comic books as a literary source for the fifteenth time and that party of Magnus’ where they ended up in the school pool at three in the morning in fancy dress, Simon sort of, maybe, possibly, started liking him a bit.

Or a lot.

_Anyway._

He’s fumbled his way into the designer jeans that are going to feature way too heavily in his dreams from now on, and is trying to get his cellphone from where it’s lodged down the side of the bed when Raphael comes back, two mugs of coffee in his hands, and _god_ , Simon may have just descended into the realms of true love.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says, reaching for it before Raphael can say anything, and letting it burn his tongue. It’s rich and dark and just sweet enough, and Simon’s hangover rejoices for the thirty seconds it takes for him to realize it really is _perfect_. “Um,” he says. “This is how I take my coffee. Like, exactly.”

Raphael shuffles his feet and doesn’t meet Simon’s eyes.

“I’m stuck behind you enough in the cafeteria queue,” he says defensively, his own fingers curled tight around his mug, and Simon’s struck momentarily speechless.

“You know my coffee order,” he says, when he finds his voice, and wow, he really wishes they were having this conversation when he didn’t feel like he’d packed his bags and moved to the seventh circle of hell, but, hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Why are you making a big deal out of this?” Raphael says, and Simon shrugs and thinks it’s cute how Raphael looks sort of like an angry puppy when he’s cornered.

“I’m not,” Simon says. “Though — and stop me if this seems too fast — how do you feel about lifetime commitment? Possibly with marriage and the adoption of multiple street urchins?”

“Most people call them children,” Raphael says, and then shakes his head. “Also you’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

“Not true,” Simon points out. “You’ve met Jace.”

Raphael looks ready to argue and then tips his head in agreement instead. “The _second_ worst.”

“Still not hearing a yes or no on the forever thing,” Simon says, and catalogues Raphael’s eyeroll away in the mental file he’s been keeping for the past two years.

“At least buy me dinner first,” Raphael says sarcastically, and Simon stops and breathes and sees the nervous twitch of Raphael’s lip, the way his gaze is fixed on a spot besides Simon’s ear, and can’t _believe—_

“Okay,” he says. “Are you free tonight?”

“—What?” Raphael says, and he is looking at Simon now, Simon who’s standing in Raphael’s dorm room wearing Raphael’s clothes after whatever embarrassing shit he did to get himself here, and, yeah, Simon’s _still_ sure the universe hates him.

“Tonight,” Simon says again, hoping he sounds as serious as he feels. “Do you like Italian food?”

“Yes,” Raphael says.

“Yes you like Italian food, or yes to tonight?” Simon asks, just to be sure.

“Both,” Raphael says, and he still looks confused, like he’s not sure what turn his life took to get him here. Simon doesn’t blame him.

“Great,” Simon says, grabbing for his phone and finding his keys in a potted cactus and making his way to the door before Raphael has the chance to change his mind. “I’ll book somewhere and text you.”

“Okay?” Raphael says, taking Simon’s empty mug as he passes.

“And, hey,” Simon says, because he’s possibly still a bit drunk and because he has absolutely no filter at the best of times, “you’ve already seen me naked! That’ll make things _way_ less awkward down the line.”

Simon bolts but not before he hears Raphael choke on his coffee.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (come talk to me about these nerds [on tumblr](http://madroxed.tumblr.com) any time.)


	10. "Have you lost your damn mind!?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future fic.

Simon buys an apartment in London, a two bed in a converted warehouse in the docklands, roads winding far enough from Tower Bridge so as not to be a tourist trap but still costing the sort of money that would have made him hyperventilate when he was young. 

It’s not his first choice of city, not even with Magnus singing its praises as his eyes glaze over and Simon’s sure he’s lost him to somewhere, some _when_ , else. No, not his first choice, but a necessity anyway.

So he buys an apartment, hires someone to fill it with furniture before he arrives, and then sits on his new brown leather couch and _waits_.

It takes two hours which is at least an hour and fifty minutes longer than he thought it would.

“No,” Raphael says, appearing in the open doorway. His hair’s free of product, curling around his ears, and the collar of his shirt tugs awkwardly where he’s pulled it on in a hurry. He looks caught out, _unkept_ , and Simon feels fiercely pleased even as Raphael’s eyes blaze with confused anger.

“Hi,” Simon says, because stoking the flame of Raphael’s rage has been a favorite pastime of his since the day Raphael held him over a building by his ankle and proceeded to carve himself a place in Simon’s world. “Long time no see!”

It’s an understatement, but, _hey_ , time’s relative.

(Relative to _them_ anyway.)

Raphael’s mouth shapes silent words and Simon’s blood sings with it.

“You alright there, buddy?” he says, standing up and taking a few steps closer. “Hey, I don’t suppose I could borrow a cup of sugar…?”

He’s expecting the arm spinning him around and pinning him against the wall by his throat; he’s expecting it and he lets it happen, relaxes into it and stays perfectly still.

“Have you lost your damn _mind?_ ” Raphael says, too many emotions cracking the words into something raw and glorious. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Simon says, and, _oh_ , Simon’s missed this almost as much as he’s missed everything else.

“ _Why?_ ” Raphael says, and Simon hears everything he means: Why _here?_ Why _now?_ Why _you?_

“Because _you_ live here,” Simon says, and he’s practiced this a thousand times, years shaped in insecurity and second guessing and passing distractions. A lifetime come and gone like seasons, and the seed still _there_ , a possibility Simon took and wasted and tried to forget. 

When he was still a kid — eighteen, nineteen, twenty — and pretending at adulthood, he didn’t understand. He’s pretty sure everyone feels like that, but he’s had decades more on all of them, moving forwards and forward and forwards, searching for something that felt like home the way New York City did back then, his own twisted fairytale.

 _Once upon a time_ … it starts.

Once upon a time, there was a young man and his best friend, and the world turned out to be more than either of them could ever have believed, in dreams or nightmares.

Once upon a time, the best friend became a hero.

Once upon a time, the young man died.

( _Once upon a time, he woke up again._ )

Hindsight’s bad enough when life’s fleeting, and Simon’s has focused in so far he’s surprised he can see anything else around all of his _what ifs?_ anymore.

Raphael’s hands are shaking, and Simon wants to hold them, trap them against his chest until everything starts to feel real again, and then forget to ever let go.

“It’s been _years_ —” Raphael says, abandoned sleep settled around his eyes, softening the edges that are beginning to show beneath fading anger. He looks torn somewhere between too young and too old, and Simon remembers and remembers and remembers. 

“I know,” Simon says, and regrets every one of them.

The arm around Simon’s throat has long since gone loose; Raphael’s fingers dance subconsciously along the seam at Simon’s collar, a barely-there touch that makes Simon’s head swim. 

A lifetime ago this is all they had; hands curling around elbows, shoulders brushing, eyes sharing a moment of understanding. Nothings that stretched and pulled into _somethings._

_Somethings_ that could have been _everythings_ if Simon hadn’t run scared.

He hasn’t been scared in a long time.

“Why now?” Raphael asks. In Simon’s memory he’s mocking smirks and cutting remarks, a mentor and leader, sharp suits and tired sighs. Here and now, Simon remembers the rest. Sad eyes and empathetic smiles. Hours spent teaching Simon to be comfortable in new skin, and the fierce loyalty that spread to anyone he considered _his_. Family and safety and _home_.

“I got tired of missing you,” Simon says, because he’s spent years learning what loneliness means and because sometimes his whole life condenses down to the memory of Raphael’s palm pressed against his cheek.

Raphael’s eyes squeeze shut, the planes of his chest brushing against Simon on every unnecessary breath, and Simon waits.

“Okay,” Raphael says. “Okay.”

When he opens his eyes he looks so familiar Simon wants to cry with relief.

“I can stay?” Simon says, pushing because he can’t help himself, because he needs to know.

Raphael presses forwards until there’s barely a breath of distance between them. 

“You can borrow a cup of sugar,” he says.

When he kisses him, Simon swears he can taste his smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come talk to me on [tumblr](http://madroxed.tumblr.com/) any time.


End file.
